


Self-Service

by fuzipenguin



Series: Three Weeks [1]
Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: Established Relationship, Masturbation, Other, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sticky Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-05
Updated: 2014-01-05
Packaged: 2018-01-07 14:56:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1121205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuzipenguin/pseuds/fuzipenguin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ratchet misses the twins while they're away</p>
            </blockquote>





	Self-Service

**Author's Note:**

> PWP. Originally published on my livejournal on 1/2/12

       Grumbling, Ratchet flipped on to his side, optics restlessly scanning the darkened room. He was alone, the berth on either side of him empty. No hands to pet him and no warm, rumbling engines to soothe him into recharge.  
  
       Damn the Decepticons, and damn Prime and Prowl for sending the Twins along on a three week recon mission halfway across the country. Ratchet’s relationship with the Twins was still pretty new and he had only recently allowed them to stay past interfacing. But apparently he had gotten accustomed to having them in his berth space because he was now unable to fall into recharge without their large frames sandwiching him.  
  
       Damn them too. When had Ratchet become so attached to Sideswipe and Sunstreaker anyway? Who needed them? Ratchet certainly didn’t. He didn’t need Sideswipe’s unending grin and Sunstreaker’s surly silence. Certainly didn’t need Sideswipe’s wandering hands and Sunstreaker’s wicked glossa. Most definitely didn’t need…   
  
       Ratchet groaned, his legs shifting and thighs rubbing together as he felt the first trickle of lubricant deep in his valve. Growling, he twisted and flopped onto his front, burying his faceplates into the unexpectedly comfortable pillow Sideswipe had recently gifted him with. Then he groaned again as the faint scents of Sunstreaker’s wax were caught in his olfactory sensors. Just one whiff was enough to cause another trickle of lubricant and a growing pressure in his spike.  
  
       The more he fought for recharge, the more it eluded him. And the more his body twisted on the berth, the more aroused he became. Finally giving up, he shuttered his optics and rolled to his back, his interface panel snapping open with a click. He wrapped a hand around his spike and jerked it roughly, his only goal release and then recharge.  
  
       Unbidden, the memory of his first interface with the Twins arose in his processor. Ratchet, flustered and uncertain, striping Sideswipe’s spike much the same way he was his own now. And Sunstreaker, draping himself over Ratchet’s back, the warrior’s hand reaching out and slowing down Ratchet’s, whispering into his audio that they were in no hurry.   
  
       Just like in that memory, Ratchet’s hand slowed, and the motion became less desperate and more exploratory. His fingers loosened and trailed languorously up and down his spike, finding the sensors nodes and circling them. He imagined Sideswipe’s clever glossa flicking the sensitive head and his fingers ghosted over it lightly, his engine revving loudly in the quiet room.   
  
       Ratchet’s other hand slid away from tweaking wires in his side to slide down and dip between his thighs. He found his valve entrance, moist and leaking, and dipped a finger inside. Ratchet’s knees widened automatically, aft grinding into the berth surface as his hips jolted upwards seeking a deeper penetration.  
  
       He denied himself, instead removing the digit and tracing the quivering lips of his valve. His grip on his spike firmed, just a little, as a thin trail of lubricant welled up from his valve, spilling over to pool beneath his aft.  
  
       “Mmm,” Ratchet unconsciously moaned, “just like that.”  
  
        _Just like that,_ Sunstreaker’s phantom voice agreed. _A little harder, yes, perfect. Now taste yourself._  
  
       Ratchet pulled his hand away reluctantly, but eagerly drew the lubricant-soaked digit into his mouth, sucking and using his glossa to remove every drop of the substance from between his finger joints. _Oh, you taste so good, baby,_ Sideswipe’s voice crooned. _Let me watch you frag yourself._  
  
       Ratchet’s hand dove back to his valve, his finger sinking in with a relieved sigh. He pushed deep, tip finding and slipping over hypersensitive nodes. He shivered, hips lifting to push his spike through his grip faster. _Give yourself a little more, beautiful,_ Sideswipe whispered, and another finger joined the first in his valve, the slick squelch loud in his audios.  
  
        _Yes, that’s it,_ Sunstreaker praised. _Harder._  
  
       Ratchet switched out hands, bucking as his spike slid through his wet grip. Three fingers found their way to damp heat and plundered deep. A low groan emerged into the room, followed by the increasingly loud creak of the berth as he rhythmically shifted on it, enthusiastically seeking out his own touch.  
  
       “Mmm, more!” Ratchet gasped, head weakly thrashing back and forth.  
  
        _Come on,_ Sideswipe cajoled. _Want to see you drenched in your own fluids. Want to see you overload for us, baby._  
  
       “Uhhh!” Ratchet moaned, fingers thrusting faster into his valve. “Sunny… Sides…!” he whined. “Please!”  
  
       The hand around his spike stuttered in its motion as the heat building low in his pelvis suddenly erupted. Stripes of transfluid burst from his spike tip, streaking his abdominal plating. His valve clamped down tight, trying to milk the fingers deep inside. As the charge popped and crackled over his frame, Ratchet slowly pumped his spike, shivering with the almost painful hypersensitivity. Finally, he went limp, fingers still buried deep in his faintly pulsing valve.  
  
       His intakes heaved, his body trying to cool down his engine. He absently listened to its pings and ticks as a comforting warmth began creeping over him.  
  
       “Miss you,” he whispered, still wantonly sprawled across the berth and lying in a sticky pool of fluids.   
  
        _We miss you too, Ratchet. Recharge well._


End file.
